Sadie When She Died полностью

“Moreover, the specimen on this microscope slide is particularly light-sensitive, meaning that the slightest deviation of any ray you might care to name—X, ultraviolet, or infrared—could easily have caused recognizable changes on the slide while I was examining it. Couple this, Steve, with the temperature, which I believe is close to ten above zero, and the air pollution level, which is, as usual in this city, unsatisfactory, and you can understand how all this might account for immediate identification without visibility being a necessary factor.”

“Yeah?” Carella said.

“Exactly. There’s one other important point, of course, and I think we should consider it, too, if we’re to understand the complete picture. You wanted to know how I knew you had entered the laboratory and were approaching the worktable? To begin with, when I heard the door opening . . .”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, here’s the single most important element in the deductive process that led me to my inescapable conclusion . . .”

“Yes, what?”

“Marshall Davies saw you in the hall. He popped in just before you opened the door, to tell me you were coming.”

“You son of a bitch,” Carella said, and burst out laughing.

“How do you like the job he did for you guys?” Grossman asked.

“Beautiful,” Carella said.

“Practically handed it to you on a platter.”

“No question.”

“The Police Laboratory strikes again,” Grossman said. “Pretty soon we’ll be able to do without you guys entirely.”

“I know. That’s why I came down to see you. I want to turn in my badge.”

“About time,” Grossman said. “Why did you come down? Big case you want us to crack in record time?”

“Nothing more important than a couple of purse snatches on Culver Avenue.”

“Bring the victims in. We’ll try to lift some latents from their backsides,” Grossman said.

“I don’t think they’d like that,” Carella said.

“And why not? We would treat the ladies with great delicacy.”

“Oh, I don’t think the lady would mind. But the guy whose purse was snatched . . .”

“You son of a bitch!” Grossman shouted, and both men began laughing hysterically.

“Seriously,” Carella said, laughing.

“Yes, yes, seriously,” Grossman said.

“Listen, I’m really trying to be serious here.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“I came down to thank you.”

“For what?” Grossman said, sobering immediately.

“I was about to go out on a limb. The stuff you got for us clinched the case and made an arrest possible. I wanted to thank you, that’s all.”

“What kind of a limb, Steve?”

“I thought the husband did it.”

“Mmm?”

“Mmm.”

“Why?”

“No reason.” Carella paused. “Sam,” he said, “I still think he did it.”

“Is that why you’re having lunch with him today?” Grossman asked.

“Now how the hell do you know that?” Carella said.

“Ah-ha,” Grossman answered. “He was in Rollie Chabrier’s office when he called you. I spoke to Rollie a little while after that, and . . .”

“Good day, sir,” Carella said. “You’re too much of a smart-ass for me.”

Most policemen in the city for which Carella worked did not very often eat in restaurants like The Golden Lion. They ate lunch at one or another of the greasy spoons in and around the precinct, where the meal was on the arm, tribute to Caesar. Or they grabbed a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee at their desks. On their own time, when they entertained wives or girl friends, they often dropped in on restaurants where they were known as cops, protesting demonstratively when the proprietor said, “This is on the house,” but accepting the gratuity nonetheless. Not a single cop in the city considered the practice dishonest. They were underpaid and overworked and they were here to protect the average citizen against criminal attack. If some of those citizens were in a position to make the policeman’s lot a bit more tolerable, why should they embarrass those persons by refusing a free meal graciously offered? Carella had never been inside The Golden Lion. A look at the menu posted on the window outside would have frightened him out of six months’ pay.

The place was a faithful replica of the dining room of an English coach house, circa 1637. Huge oaken beams crossed the room several feet below the vaulted ceiling, binding together the rough white plastered walls. The tables were sturdy, covered with immaculate white cloths, sparkling with heavy silver. Here and there throughout the room there hung the portraits of Elizabethan gentlemen and ladies, white-laced collars and cuffs discreetly echoing the color of the walls, rich velvet robes or gowns adding muted touches of color to the pristine candlelit atmosphere. Gerald Fletcher’s table was in a secluded corner of the restaurant. He rose as Carella approached, extended his hand, and immediately said, “Glad you could make it. Sit down, won’t you?”